


Stolen Wives

by Kitma



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Nymphs & Dryads, eskel is in love with a leiomniad, geralts in love with jaskier, lamberts in love with lambert, none of them want to admit it so they dirnk instead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:07:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27791254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitma/pseuds/Kitma
Summary: The three wolves drink, try not to think of the ones they love. Lambert tells of a hunt he didn't take. Eskel has feelings.
Relationships: Eskel (The Witcher)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	Stolen Wives

“They say we stole their wives. We saved them.”  
\--  
Lambert refilled his mug, gesturing to his brothers with the bottle. “Another round?”

  
Geralt and Eskel both proffered their mugs to the youngest brother. They sat at the large oaken table near the fire in the main hall of the keep. Vesemir had disappeared after supper, presumably to his study, where he wouldn’t be disturbed. Lochlorii had not been seen all day, and Eskel rubbing his scar while he shrugged when asked about her condition betrayed his report of ‘fine’. Witchers were not known for their comforting words; if anyone knew what to do it was Eskel, so the others asked no more questions.

  
It was Lambert who had brought out the bottle of Whitegull, since watered down ale with supper hardly counted as a drink. The cork was popped and drink poured into three clay tumblers picked off of a shelf near the hearth laden with many more of the same, albeit with variations in quality.

  
He wanted to get good and drunk for once. It was dangerous to do so on the Path, always having to keep ones wits about them, whether attack come from beast or man. But here surrounded by the thick stone walls of the keep, and the keep surrounded by a thick layer of snow and ice, one could let down their guard.

  
The thing with drink is, you don’t get to choose which way it takes you. You can try, sure, but if its absence has been hard felt, and the spirit particularly strong, well, its no longer in your hands.

Lambert wanted to get drunk, to lessen the fire of hate within, the burn the images of yellow eyes and blonde hair, sculpted arms, two pairs of swords, two horses, two bedrolls, two sets of tracks in the mud. A back to watch out for, and one to watch his. Scent of leather and sweat, musk and hay.

No. Drink, don’t long.

Geralt wanted to drink, to drown the insecurities, the self-loathing, the images of cornflower blues eyes, delicate, long, nimble fingers dancing across a fret board, of chamomile and honey. Of feelings that weren’t, couldn’t be returned. Sunlight couldn’t love ichor, the songbird never loved the fox, the personification of love, affection, intimacy couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t love…him.  
No. Drink, don’t long.

Eskel wanted to drink, to wash away the tension he held in himself, his body. His heart. Wash away the cowardice, of something so close he could touch it, had touched, had held, lifted, sparred, carried, and yet couldn’t, wouldn’t claim. Drown the selfish voice that whispered he could have all his heart wished, acknowledged, committed, a future if only he asked for it, bind her, leave her, return to her, again and again, every year, one season together, three apart.

No. Drink, don’t long.

Each tried to hide the turmoil from the others. Witchers can’t love, shouldn’t talk heartbreak to your brothers. How even would they? No one taught them how to.

So they talked of what they knew they could; the Path. The jobs they took, the new scars they made.

The bottle became light, its contents having loosened the tongues of the three wolves. It was Lambert whose face grew dreich first- a rarity. Usually the jester, the antagonizer, the pain in the ass; he had a way of charging the atmosphere with his energy. A sustaining vigor, a thunderstorm fit into a man. Somber, the air stilled, its electricity gone, wisped away. Its absence was palatable, uncomfortable, causing the other two to shift in their seats.

“Was looking for a job on my way north. Someone mentioned trouble in a town not too far from where I was, in Kaedwen. Sounded like archespores, so I ride out. I get there, and they had a stake in the middle of the square, surrounded by kindling. All ready to burn. I should have left, but I was told there was coin to be made, and well, my purse was getting light. When I met with the Alderman, he told me it was for the- the eerie wives”

A cup cracked; the sound as of a log cracking in the hearth, eyes flashing as of the sparks cast from it. Shadows from the flames danced across large features and deep valleys of scars. Anger flowed as smoke in the air.

“A deterrent” A mug refilled, a shot downed by the young.

Cracked, but now released, tossed back the last bit of spirit it held. Set down, abandoned. The offended hand, massive and weathered like the trees that braved the storm outside rubbed a scarred cheek. It calmed, with effort, and reached to hold, with gentleness not shown to the cup, a small stone upon a leather cord round a strong, scarred neck.

“He told me, with pride, the bastard, that the last one they caught they burned at the stake right there, under the noon sun, in the middle of the square. Her screams…heard miles away” Poured another shot-empty. “Damn it.” A bottle thrown to the side.

“…Did you…?” Asked yellow eyes and snow-white hair as he stared at the man with the broken cup and the small stone of grey and holes.

“No. Damn you, no! You think I’d take their coin? I may not be a good man, but I won’t help monsters of men. I told him they fucked around, and now they get to find out. I suspect she laid a curse upon them. How they couldn’t connect the two events, I don’t know. From what I was told, there was more than one of them, a whole cluster. Makes you think….no. I don’t want to. I need another drink.”

A bottle was yet again procured and poured. The fire slowly died as the bottles drained, the witchers fighting harder to keep yellow eyes open, until a retreat was the most sensible course.

Farewells were spoken, and a pair staggered up the stairs to their rooms, leaving the largest one behind with his cracked mug.

“Eskel.” The nymph sat next to him on the bench, arrival silent yet not surprising. Her linen chiton glowed with colours of the hearth, skin dark in the red light. She appeared only when the drink was all gone, to lead stumbling witchers to their rooms if the world spun unfairly.

He draped an arm around her, pulling her close.

“In the spring. Stay away from Kaedwen. They…they have been hunting nymphs.”

“Hm.” There was a pause, heavy and stagnant. “Territory or women?” Altercations between the humans and nymphs were often about territory, but occasionally when a wife or maiden went missing, the nymphs were the first to blame.

“Likely both. Lambert was offered- and refused- a contract. The leader claimed the nymphs kidnapped one of their wives, right out after her wedding.”

She snorted, an undignified sound more fitting a mutant than a creature borne of eleven blood and chaos. “They say we steal their wives. We save them.”  
The dregs of a bottle were liberating into a small cup, and tossed back. “They come to us, for freedom. To escape from abusive husbands, from horrid, wretched marriages, from having to pretend not to be eerie. We give them a home, shelter, safety. And the men….they are too arrogant to see that they are the cause. So they kill us. And then have the audacity to be surprised whenever we tell them we don’t want to fuck them. I find myself with little sympathy for whatever fate the men reap of their sowing.”

“Hmm” Eskel, like his brothers, knew of the poor treatment non-humans faced. Of the wrongness of it all. It lead only to conflict, bloodshed, and war. They could only wish for change, being too small to enact it themselves. No, one had to focus on survival; there was little room for more than that.

Such sombering subjects were best not to be dwelt on, and by the furrow of her brow, Eskel could tell dark and distant thoughts were beginning to gather. He stood, swaying only slightly before pulling her up in his arms. Had he been sober, he would not have had the confidence, but after two bottles of White Gull, he found himself lacking most of his sensibilities and inhibitions. Later he would fret over his boldness, forgetting that she did not object to being carried and dropped onto his bed, even doubting if it had happened.

But he would wake without his boots or spiked jacket on, which he did not have the will or want to remove the night before. On the nightstand was a mug covered in a dollie; a sweetly spiced drink that did wonders for hangovers.

Maybe, just maybe, he could long for her. Maybe he already had her. He was only certain of his determination that the world of men and kings and politics would not harm her, would not reach her up in the mountains where their Keep was hid.

**Author's Note:**

> Chiton- Ancient Roman dress, made of a single rectangle of fabric, sewed up the side, and attached at the top with buttons. Very simple garment to sew.  
> Dreich- Somber but Scottish  
> ‘Eerie’- Made up term meaning Sapphic, or women who love women.  
> Archespores- Enormous, ugly plants, that will kill you. “According to popular belief, archespores are cursed plants grown in soil fertilized by the blood of the dying. They are most often found in places which in the past saw pogroms (massicare/ bloody riot), bloody rituals or cruel murders”- from the Wiki


End file.
